


The Secret Fantasy Life of Dr. John H. Watson

by irrevocably-johnlocked (AurielleDawn)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, How John wishes ASiP had gone, John has a problem with fantasizing about his new flatmate, John's characterization of Sherlock right after moving in, M/M, This is all in John's head so blame him, this is the result
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 14:34:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1652141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AurielleDawn/pseuds/irrevocably-johnlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock jumps me in the hallway that first night, and there’s no drugs bust going on upstairs to get in the way. JW</p><p>***</p><p>He glances at my mouth, and I tilt my head up in invitation.  Then his lips are on mine and he’s stepping in to pin me to the wall with his body.  My hands go to his hair, and he snogs like he walks – like a knife dipped in chocolate – and fuck me, but it’s amazing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Secret Fantasy Life of Dr. John H. Watson

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the lovely archipelagoarchaea, who makes everything I write ten times better.

**The Mad Genius**

 

_“Girlfriend? No. Not really my area.” He’s looking out the window, hoping a murderer pops by._

_I do a bit of a double-take while I process this. Wait, so is he gay then? “Oh, right. Do you have a…boyfriend? Which is…fine, by the way.”_

_“I know it’s fine,” He says quickly. He’s studying me now, and I’m not sure whether that’s good or bad._

_Sounds…like a possible confirmation he’s gay. Not a denial, anyway. “So you’ve got a boyfriend.”_

_“No.” He responds over quickly, brow wrinkling, and I’m afraid I’ve offended him._

_“Alright,” I laugh a bit to break the tension. “Okay. You’re unattached. Just like me. Fine. Good.”_

At this he focuses on me, tilting his head a bit, considering “Indeed.” 

***

We’ve just had an actual foot chase through the streets of London, over the rooftops and down alleys, like bloody comic book heroes. It was ridiculous and amazing and I haven’t had this much fun in…ever. Sherlock Holmes is bloody brilliant, mad as a hatter, and sexy as hell. I have no idea whether I have a chance with him, but fuck. He’s gorgeous, and he makes me feel alive, and I really hope he’s into blokes. 

We’re leaning against the wall in the foyer at Baker Street – giggling like schoolboys, high off our adventure – when he looks at me, eyes sparkling. There’s a smile in there and something darker. I’m cautious because I can’t read him, but I smile back and hold his eyes. Enough of an invitation, but nothing that can’t be shrugged off if he’s not interested. 

He moves slowly, like a cat, eyes on mine, grin cocky as he turns to bracket his hands on the wall on either side of my shoulders, leaning in close. He looks like sex and daggers in that damned bespoke suit, and he knows it, too, the arrogant sod. 

He glances at my mouth, and I tilt my head up in invitation. Then his lips are on mine and he’s stepping in to pin me to the wall with his body. My hands go to his hair, and he snogs like he walks – like a knife dipped in chocolate – and fuck me, but it’s amazing. I open my mouth to him and our tongues tangle before I pull him down to me, our teeth scraping, low groans in our throats. He breaks away, eyes dilated, panting lightly, and my heart is pounding in my chest. He grins that cocky grin again. 

“So. Dr. Watson,” he purrs in that gorgeous deep voice, eyes focused on my lips, running his tongue across his own. “Fancy a shag, then?” 

I grin, “Oh, god, yes.” 

He laughs at this and grabs my hand and pulls me up the stairs, retrieving his coat and scarf along the way. When we reach the flat, he tosses his coat at the couch and turns to capture my mouth, one hand behind my head and the other moving under my jumper. I grab a handful of his hair (God, _that hair_ ) and unbutton his jacket. We’re all tongues and teeth, and he’s like drowning in fire, and it’s bloody brilliant. He’s got my jumper and shirt off, and I’ve got his buttons mostly undone by the time we bump into the kitchen table. I work his shirt out of his trousers, and he shrugs it off, then pins me against the fridge. 

“Are you always like this after a chase through the city?” he pants, shifting to nip at my collarbone. I groan and throw my head back, giving him better access. 

“You should see me after I’ve been shot at,” I gasp, and he laughs again, pulling my hands above my head. 

“Oh, I’m sure that can be arranged, John.” 

He leans his weight in, pinning me with hands and body so I’m trapped, helpless, and my arousal spikes 300%. Jesus, he knows exactly what I like. And he sees it, too, staring at me from barely an inch away, grinning when my breath catches and my eyes go unfocused. 

“You like danger, Dr. Watson,” he breathes, grinding against me, and we’re both rock hard. “And men who might be able to hurt you.” He applies more pressure to my wrists, drawing them upward so I’m stretched taut against the icebox and pulling a needy sound from my throat. “That could get you into trouble.” I can see in his eyes he knows I’ll do anything, anything he wants in that moment. 

He leans down to take my mouth again, bruisingly, and I’m making desperate sounds in my throat. He shifts his grip so he’s holding both my wrists with one hand and runs the other down my body. I fight his grasp a little, testing it, and he tightens his hold in rebuke, biting my lip lightly. He’s actually strong enough to hold me captive like that with one hand, and – Oh, Jesus, I’m seeing stars. 

His free hand runs down my side and along my belt line, reaching the front of my jeans and undoing the first button. I’m panting into his mouth and so hard it’s painful. He breaks the kiss, and we’re both gasping for air, chests heaving, and his eyes are unfocused, an ocean storm swallowed by black. 

He’s just an inch away, breath washing over me, face flushed and lips red from the roughness of my skin. And he holds us like that, panting, staring at one another, me pinned solidly, unable to move, while he lowers my zip and runs his fingers along my abdomen, then lower. 

When his hand closes around me we both gasp, and he leans down to rest his forehead against mine as he slowly runs his hand along my length. We’re both trembling, and when he opens his eyes, he looks like he wants to eat me whole. 

His voice is pure sex when he murmurs, “Let’s see what other kinds of trouble we can get ourselves into.” 

He releases his hold on both my wrists and my cock, and I almost whimper, but he pulls me away from the icebox, walking backwards into his room, pulling me against him as we go. 

The snogging’s is a little less intense this time: more exploring and less dominating. He runs his hands over my body, and I reciprocate. Jesus, he has a fantastic body. He’s impossibly slim and elegant, all long lines and alabaster, with those gorgeous eyes that change color with his moods and that soft hair and those cheekbones. Almost pretty but with a hard, dangerous edge – and he’s fucking mad as far as I can tell. Bloody hell, he’s perfect. 

I get his trousers undone while he’s shoving mine down, and then we’re both kicking our trousers and pants away, and he pulls me back into his body. We’re both rock hard, and the feel of him against me is almost unbearable. 

He shoves me down on the bed, and I pull myself backwards. We stare at one another for a moment, eyes roaming, and he is breathtakingly beautiful. He runs a hand up my leg and over my hip as he crawls over me looking like sex, hair tousled, eyes dilated and stormy. I lean up to capture his mouth, a hand back in his hair, and the other running down to the small of his back to pull him down. He collapses against me, half-bracing himself on an elbow and running his other hand along my ribs as he grinds against me, and—“

“John!”

Jesus, my name in that voice—

“ _John!_ ”

I gasp as the fantasy breaks and I’m pulled back to reality by shouting from downstairs. 

“Oh, for the—“ 

I swipe a hand over my face and take a deep breath, trying to bring my heart rate down before I answer. The bastard will probably be able tell what I’ve been doing by the sound of my voice. 

I adjust my clothes and walk to the door, pulling it open enough to yell, “ _What?_ ”

“Sulfuric acid!”

“You were storing it with the cooking oil and vinegars, you lunatic! I put it under the sink so we wouldn’t accidentally poison ourselves.”

I hear a faint grumbling in response and close the door to lean against it, breathing deeply. 

I’ve really got to stop fantasizing about the madman downstairs. 

Shaking my head, I head to the lav to take a very, very cold shower.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this ages ago, and my intention was to do a series that would show how John wishes things had gone at some pivotal moment in each episode. Sherlock's characterization and the nature of John's fantasies would adjust as John's impressions of and feelings for Sherlock change. 
> 
> I'm hoping to do that at some point, but for now I'm posting this as a stand-alone, because I have way too many irons in the proverbial fic fire at the moment. 
> 
> So would you be interested in this being a series? Comment and let me know.


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